Turning On A Dime
by ectograsp
Summary: Rachel's got her dream: she's in New York. But it wasn't her choice and she finds herself going down a dangerous path. Post 3x22 'Goodbye'.


_Rachel used to love trains._

_Her fathers were made to be the parents of a little girl, but she knows there's a part of them – a tiny, non-regretful but still wistful part – which wonders what it might have been like to have a son, too, and so every now and then they used to take trips on the trains together. They say they started doing it when she was six months old, but the first trip she remembers happened when she was four. Which is too early for a little girl to know that trains are for boys, anyway, and she loved it. She thought it must be like being inside a rocket ship, only instead of passing through galaxies and vast, unbreathable air, she got to look at a whole world of possibilities. Places she really could go someday. She remembers very little but the feeling of her forehead pressed hard against the glass, and the dizzying speed of the world moving around her, on display._

_She got to think, for a few childish years, that she could start over just by stepping off the platform and onto a train. It really was a very short time, because her fathers didn't let her believe this for too long – they believe in earning what you get, in striving every day for your own ultimate ambition, and you can't do that if you think life is easy. They soon made it known that while she could get on a train with a ten dollar ticket, she needed a hell of a lot more than that to survive when she got off at the other end._

_Still, a tiny part of her always felt the same rush of adventure and hope and certainty she had known when she was four. Every time she got on a train._

'Rachel.'

She's lying in that fog of half-asleep mindlessness when the phone rings – again. She's only been in this dorm for two days but already the ring of her landline is as familiar and aggravating to her as the one at home. Excuse her – at her _fathers' house. _This is her home now – a tiny (well, mid-sized in dorm relativity) room which is painted entirely in beige, has a phone as loud as a chainsaw and a second single bed that is as yet unclaimed, and therefore stands poignantly in the other side of the room like a symbol for all the sudden vacancies in her life.

She supposes it's comforting that she hasn't lost her ability to find metaphors in the minutiae of everyday life.

_Some _things never change.

'_Rachel!'_

Half-asleep mindlessness begins to evade her and before she can help it, she's awake. Every time she lets the phone ring out – twelve repetitions, she's counted – she thinks that _this _time, it'll end in silence. But it never does. Kurt is persistent, and his voice is perfectly pitched to cut through sleep. Well, considering his extensive vocal range, it's really that he's _worked out _the perfect pitch and is wielding it with deadly accuracy. Like a bedazzled machete.

'I know you're there. Or even if you're not there right this second, you _have _been there and I've left fourteen messages in two days not including the ones on your cell, so the only conclusion I can draw from your resounding silence is that you're ignoring me.'

She groans and rolls over, burying her face in her pillow. She shoves down the guilt. _Yes. Yes, I am ignoring you. I do not want to speak to you. _

_Take. A. Hint._

'Honey, please.'

It's the 'please' that brings tears to her eyes.

She _wants _to talk to him. There's a reason she doesn't just unplug her answering machine and cut him off completely – she could even disconnect the landline if she really wanted to, and just take calls on her cell, which has that magical caller's ID she's become so fond of in recent days. But… she likes hearing Kurt's voice. It's one of her favourites.

She just can't bring herself to talk to the person who owns it.

'I know you're upset, and you must be reeling from all the surprises you've had over the last couple of days. And I know you're angry, that you feel like we're all making a choice for you that you didn't sign up for. But Rachel… Finn made this decision because he loves you. And me, your dads, the glee kids – we all went along with it because _we love you too, _and sometimes the people who love you can see what's right for you better than you can. If you're not ready to believe that… I understand. I do. But _please _talk to me. Or anyone! I know the others have been calling you. You can take all the time you need to stop being angry but please… don't cut yourself off.'

She rolls onto her back again, arms crossed tight across her chest. With every passing second, the idea of talking to Kurt seems more impossible and yet more inviting. _Talk to me. Pick up. Come, on Rachel. _A million coaxing words in the past two days, from him and from everyone else who means anything to her – everyone that stood on that platform and smiled her into her future.

Everyone except one person.

'Finn's worried about you.'

Those words hit her like a punch to the stomach and she draws a breath in through her teeth.

'Don't be hurt he hasn't called you, Rachel. You guys were going to get married… it's hard for both of you but as much as he wants desperately to talk to you, you understand why he can't. It's not fair to push you into New York with one hand and drag you back to Lima with the other.'

It's not fair to push her into New York. Full stop.

Look, she knows why he did what he did. She believes it's because he loves her and there's a part of her that can even marvel at his selflessness. And she still loves New York with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. It's her dream city – as close to Utopia as she's ever going to get. She can't say anything cliché like _I haven't smiled since I left _because she has – she's smiled at the billboards she imagines herself featuring on one day, at all the sophisticated people who seem to move so much faster than everyone in Lima because they too must be rushing towards something extraordinary. She can't pretend she doesn't think about her future here and feel excited and happy and even grateful.

But there's a burning part of her which is _angry. _At all of them, not just Finn, though at Finn the most. For turning this place, which once held _nothing _but good memories and good hopes and good dreams for her, which she could once turn to and think _this place will make me happy when nothing else will, _into a grey area of joy and grief, success and disappointment, excitement and utter, gut-wrenching, devastating heartache. Finn has altered New York for her, and not for the better, and for that she almost hates him. Almost.

She wanted New York. She still wants it. But she wanted it _with_ him.

She's just so _mad. _He let her believe that they were a constant – that their futures were something they would work out together, and she had absolute faith in that. She thought that nothing could tear them apart as long as they stayed true to each other and the awful thing is, she was right. Everything that had been thrown at them, everything they'd been through, and in the end they were ruined because _Finn decided. _And she has been made a fool and a liar.

In sophomore year, she would have left him behind without a second thought if it meant pursuing her stardom. And it makes her mad that he dragged her through three years of change that broke her back and sometimes very nearly swallowed her whole, that he made her do all that, see how important people were and how important _he _was, just to throw it back in her face. _Oh, sorry. I was wrong. Your career is what counts. I'm sorry I let you count on having me in your life._

She's angry at her friends for going along with his stupid plan, for not warning her. They let her think she was getting _married _on that day and they let Finn break all his promises, and they stood on that stupid platform and pretended they couldn't see that her smile was fake. She had thought they respected her but instead they shooed her off onto a train like a silly little child. She had to look out the window and see them all standing there, sending her off, like they were holding their breath. Like they couldn't wait to see her go. These people she loved, banded together, and her alone.

She's angry that he made this decision _for _her. She's angry that he's joining the army, but that's an anger independent of this whole New York horribleness because he could _die _there – and he'd rather do that than stay with her? She is angry at him for breaking up with her but continuing to love her. That's almost the worst part. He's not angry at her. He didn't just lose interest and she hasn't done anything wrong – he just decided that there are things more important in life than being together, and _he didn't ask her._

But God. Under all the anger, she's so sad that she can't breathe.

_Sorry, Kurt. I can't talk to you because I'm too sad._

She considers actually picking up the phone and saying this, because A) it's true and B) she knows it would make him feel completely terrible. But she doesn't.

'Rachel… come on. This isn't the end of anything, okay?'

She goes to breakfast at a tiny little café around the corner from her dorm and has organic oatmeal with bananas and cinnamon, and a soy latte. Comfort food. It's 8:00 in the morning and the New York day is already old; sidewalk sprayed with new litter, new footsteps. There's something really great about a city that's always awake. She knows statistically it's a dangerous place, but it sort of feels like she's being watched over. Like the city itself wants her to succeed.

Last time she was in New York, she ate every breakfast with Kurt. But she tries not to think about that. She's been told this is where she's meant to be and now she's here so she better get on with her life, right?

She decides to go for a walk through Central Park.

It's as pretty as she remembers, but the phantom of glee club is so thick in the air that it chokes her and she's walking over a bridge with stinging eyes. New York was _theirs. _She can practically hear them singing and every fibre in her body wants to look for them: there's a nonsensical part of her that is so certain they are here. How can she be, after all, if they are not? Her throat aches; an actual tear falls down her cheek and she swipes at it angrily. The thing is, if she looks for them and they're not there she'll probably collapse into a puddle and that's not how she wants to make her name here, so she just doesn't look. She pretends they're hiding from her; lurking just out of sight, like ghosts, but still present. She pretends she can feel Finn's eyes on her, back when he _did _want her; when he was still willing to fight, and another tear falls and she hightails out of Central Park like she's being chased. Which she is.

She goes back to her dorm. She can give herself another day of mourning. There's no one around to say she can't!

The answering machine is blinking with a little red 3 and she sighs, sits down heavily on her bed and prepares herself, pressing the button with dread.

'Rachel –'

_Quinn._

' – you have to answer your phone! I know you're upset but you have to talk to us. You know we love you and that's the _only _reason we went along with it. Because it's what's best for you. And in time, you _will _see that. You're so special – I once said that you can't hate me for helping to send you on your way, Rachel, and at the time it was for all the wrong reasons because it was all about me. But this is something we all did for _you. _And you can't hate us for that.'

'Hey, Berry –'

_Oh God. Puck._

'Pick up your goddamn phone! Everyone's going crazy because you're completely MIA. Look… I know you're hurting, but there's a hell of a lot of people who love you over here who are willing to let you yell and scream your tiny little ass off as long as you just let us know you're okay. I mean it, Rachel. Just because Finn had to let you go, _for now, _doesn't mean you get rid of us.'

'Hi, Rachel?'

_Blaine._

'This is Blaine. Rachel, I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now, but you have to know – you're not alone. We will all always be here for you, whether you're in New York or New Delhi. Anything you need, I'm a phone call away – any time, okay?'

Over the next few days, she tries to start the life in New York she always dreamed about. She eats in the dining hall with other kids and she's engaged enough to love the fact that this isn't like starting high school all over again – she doesn't open her mouth and get sneered at or laughed at; people don't look her up and down and smirk. Maybe it's the fact that individuality is celebrated here, or that they all come from so many places that they don't know what the uncool thing is yet, or maybe they're all just scared, but everyone's actually very friendly. She doesn't eat a meal alone, in fact.

She goes to a movie with some girls from her floor. She tries Central Park again, and this time she forces herself to stay until her heart stops hurting, because it's pathetic to be emotionally afraid of a park and no matter what's going on in her life, she won't let herself be that. The novelty of night-time New York noise wears off and she buys ear plugs, the only way to get some sleep. She walks – one day she walks the whole five boroughs, and as soon as she's done she's got her hand buried in her pocket, rummaging in her phone to call Finn because he always used to tease that she had such short legs she'd take a week to do that, and she's got her thumb on his speed dial number (1), a grin on her face, when she remembers and puts it away, face burning.

Because she does forget, sometimes. It's like getting a leg chopped off. It's gone, and it's not like you don't have proof every day of that fact, but still – it's such a big part of you that there are moments when you… forget. She wakes up sometimes and checks her phone for a good morning message from him. She hears a guy in the hallway tell his friend some dirty joke about boobs and makes a mental note to tell Finn. She sees a tall guy with brown hair and broad shoulders and she's _so sure _it's him, because he's always been with her, hasn't he? Of course not. She can't get used to it. She _forgets. _And every time, there's a moment of crushing realization and her heart breaks all over again.

She dreams about him.

The first time she heard him sing. His voice, like a bird emerging from a dead tree. Who would have expected such a voice from such a boy? His alarmed expression during that very first Grease number, when she threw herself at him. His stunned expression by the lockers, when she told him about Jesse. His hand on her shoulder when they visited Shaun. The shadows on his face, made prominent by slanted spotlight as they walked down aisles to the stage at that very first Regionals. Standing on a stage with scripts in their hands as he confessed his insecurities, shyly trusting her. A moment among moments in glee club, when they sat holding hands and she _knew _she'd never have to worry about there being a last time. That crooked smile of his that always made her heart skip a beat. And his sorrow, running along with the train long after he fell behind, taunting her. _See what I'm doing for you? I love you, Rachel. _

_But I DIDN'T WANT THIS. _

You'd think the soundtrack to their story would have something to do with the countless songs they've sung for or with each other, but it's actually the clatter of bowling bowls hitting timber; the potent murmur of an audience behind curtains; a heartbeat. They're sounds that sound like other things, and so everywhere she goes she hears him in the thud of a construction site, the cacophony of restaurant cutlery.

A couple of times, she actively tries to imagine he's there. She knows it's bad for her, but she can't help it – short of calling him and begging him to change his mind, this is the ultimate indulgence, and she can only resist for too long.

She lies in bed and slowly constructs the feeling of being there with him. Covers warmer from his body heat. His chest pressed against her back; the sole of her foot touching his calf. His arm, heavy and solid and warm, anchoring her waist. His face a breath away from her neck. She remembers all of it; how she used to hold his wrist when he was sleeping, secretly marvelling at how small her hand was next to his; passing her thumb over the callus on his palm. She used to shiver from some inexplainable happiness she got from the slowness of his breathing. She loved being awake when he was asleep. Sometimes she spent fifteen minutes inching her way into turning around, so she was facing him, but didn't wake him. He looked so young when he was sleeping; eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, hair mussed. What else does she know? _He always smelled like cookies. He was ticklish on his right elbow. He used to have nightmares about people dying in war – his dad, his mom, Burt, Kurt, Rachel, and she could always tell because he woke up with a jolt, and though he never disturbed her, she would find his hand. Other than that, he was a deep sleeper._

Was? Is. All these things are still true. They haven't changed, not yet, she's sure of it. She's just not there anymore to know them.

It's only been a week. That's no time at all to get over a three year relationship. But she wants to be over it. This hurts too much. She wants to be over it, and yet she still keeps imagining him there – in bed with her, catching up to her on the street, inside a taxi she hails, in the back of a movie theatre.

_Tina. _'Maybe you're just so busy conquering New York that you don't have time to get back to us, but please call soon, okay?' _Sam. _'Hey, Rachel. I hope you're having an amazing time in New York. Catch up soon, okay?' _Mike. _'Hey Rachel, turns out I'm going to be in New York for a week with my parents before I go to Chicago. Call me so we can organize to meet up, alright?' _Artie. _'Yo, Berry. I'm thinking about doing a documentary on the college life in New York City, let me know if you'd be willing to spot me some footage!' _Mercedes. _'Girl, you have _got _to call _someone. _I know you're sad but this isn't healthy, running away like this.'

_Running away? I was pushed!_

They're pleading, impatient, subtle, upfront, a million different things, but she gets a call from almost everyone in glee club, making sure – in their own ways – that she knows they haven't forgotten about her, and won't.

_Santana._

'Rachel Berry, you better be dead in the gutter like some Brooklyn hooker or stalking some more scary black women for the sake of your career, because there is no other excuse for your hilarious little vanishing act. Finn may have broken your heart but the rest of us have done nothing but prop your scrawny ass up all year so you _better _remember, you got obligations that don't go away just because you're bummed you don't have anyone to tongue anymore. _Make a noise.'_

There's an email from Brittany aka with a hotline number for Gamblers Anonymous – she isn't sure why, but realizes it's probably an attempt at comfort, and she knows the only reason Brittany hasn't called is because she thinks Jewish people aren't allowed to have phones.

Two years ago, these efforts would have been enough for her. They clearly care. But about what? Rachel? Or her talent? Because New York, _this year… _she still doesn't think it was right for her.

She's walking down the hallway to her room, rummaging in her tote bag for the key, after grabbing dinner in the dining hall. It's been a week and she still hasn't called anyone back. It's not that she doesn't want to. She just doesn't know what they have to say to each other right now. She can't babble about New York like she used to – she loves it here, she does, and being here is the only thing that's keeping her from falling apart, which is ironic because being here is also the reason why she's almost falling apart.

She can't say she's fine. She can't say _we're fine. _

But her thinking time is over, because she looks up when she gets to her door and her mouth falls open, because leaning against it in a dress so tight she may well have been poured into it and with an utterly unimpressed expression is Santana Lopez, long time enemy and recent friend, and when their eyes meet Rachel can see that Santana is not here to _comfort _her.

'Hola, dwarf,' she says coolly, peeling herself off the door as Rachel gapes with her keys dangling from her hand. There's a pause. 'You gonna let me in or do you want all your new friends to see me GALHOYA?'

Rachel furrows her brow. The hallway is empty, no people let alone new friends, but also - 'GALHOYA?'

Santana sighs. 'Go all Lima Heights on your ass. Thought I'd try out an acronym, didn't know it sucked balls till I tried it. The point remains. We gonna go in?'

She can't believe Santana's here. For one thing New York is _far _from Lima and it's expensive to get there, but for another, of all the people she might have expected to make such a gesture if she'd considered the possibility, Santana would not have been high on the list. She'd have been _on _it, because they are friends, after all, but not high on it.

'Um – yeah, of course –' she stammers, and she whips a smile onto her face that she knows won't fool Santana for a second, but makes _her _feel better. She steps forward, unlocks the door and lets Santana in first. 'Sorry about the, uh – the mess – I don't actually spend a lot of time in this room –'

'If you've spent a single _minute _in this room,' Santana interrupts, striding past her and turning around, a hand on her hip and her eyes narrowed, 'then you know that New Directions en masse has called you about a _thousand _times and left about a _million _messages. And if you know that, that means the only explanation for you not returning a _single one of those messages _is that you've been ignoring us. Which is incredibly rude. I mean, I knew there was a chance some competitive show diva had shoved your cell phone so far up your nose that you couldn't check your voicemail, but there's really no excuse for ignoring the landline. Hence, GALHOYA.'

'Did you just say 'hence'?'

'I'm a brilliant and sophisticated woman, Berry. I gots a kickass vocabulary. Now quit changing the subject.' Her voice went low; never a good sign in Santana-land, and Rachel's heart sank. She had the feeling she'd _disappointed _Santana, which was new to her – she was used to driving her to violence, but disappointment was foreign to her and somehow felt far worse.

'Why have you been ignoring us?'

Rachel opened her mouth… and closed it. She didn't know what to say that could possibly satisfy Santana. _Because I'm mad at you for letting Finn do this to me? Because you didn't trust me to know my own heart? Because everyone else got to make their life choices for themselves but I got shunted off on some train like I'm not even one of you? Because I'm sad, Santana. _

_Because I look at you, or I hear your voices, and I see him. _

'I just – I don't know,' she muttered, crossing her arms.

'You're obviously mad at us.'

'Yeah, I guess I am.'

'Care to explain why?' Santana looked frustrated. 'Jesus Christ, Berry, all through high school we couldn't get you to shut up and now we _want _you to talk and suddenly you're Charlie Chaplin? We're not in high school anymore. We can't just sing you a song to fix everything. Or, we could, but it'd have to be over the phone and you're not picking up!'

'Look, Santana, how would you feel if the man you thought you were going to _marry _picked you up on what you thought was going to be your _wedding _day, and instead took you to the train station to say goodbye, maybe forever?'

She shouts it.

'He asked me to _marry _him, and I said yes! He promised me, over, and over, that he would always be there. He let me think that – I would never have to worry about him leaving me. And then he _blindsided _me.'

Her eyes overflow before she knows they're filling and she can't even be bothered wiping the tears away. Santana is impassive, and this prompts her to continue.

'I planned a life around him. Why is it that if I want to be a star and nothing else, people say I'm a crazy bitch, but if I actually try and compromise for someone I love I get treated like a stupid little kid and forced to leave?'

'Is that what you think?' asks Santana, disbelieving. 'That Finn forced you to leave?'

'What do you mean is that what I think? That's what happened! And you let him!'

Her voice cracks on the _him _and she takes a wavering breath, determined not to break Santana's gaze. Who no longer looks exactly impassive, but caught between frustration and sympathy. She looks at Rachel for a while, long enough for her to get unsettled by it.

'Okay, hobbit,' she says thoughtfully, finally. 'I have an idea.'

_Oh God. A Santana idea._

'Did you bring any clothes that I would be caught dead in?'

'Uh…' Rachel wracks her brain, choosing to ignore the jibe hidden in the question. 'Yeah, a couple of things. You – you want to get changed?' Odd segue.

Santana rolls her eyes.

'No. I want _you _to get changed. We're in New York. We're going to go get our drinks on Santana Lopez style, which means _in _style, and I'm going to show you exactly why you should be grateful to Finn _and _us for sending you on your way, and then I'm going to help you select a fruit basket for each member of glee who has taken sweet time out of their days to fill up your answering machine this past week, and an electric toothbrush for Brittany because she thinks she can use them to communicate with Lord Tubbington.'

A/N: This is probably going to be around ten chapters, and should be updated about once a week. I _loved _'Goodbye' – I think it had just the right amount of resolution and set up some amazing new storylines for the new season: I know I'm one of the few who was happy with it though. I am a big Finchel shipper though, and their breakup, while absolutely heartwrenchingly beautiful, was also kind of devastating. I'm taking this chance to put my own spin on the aftermath for both of them, including some speculation about the rest of the characters. I would really appreciate reviews – I'm a pretty new writer and would love some feedback! Also, I'd like to know if you think I'm keeping the characters in tune.

Thanks for reading!


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